My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

No Bra-ha-ha

by on ·General, The Way I See It

Let me put this right out there and say that I hate wearing a bra. Bras might be a sensual turn-on for men, but they are the ultimate torture garment for women. They pinch and poke. They’re uncomfortable and constricting. The first thing you want to do when you take it off is vigorously scratch those girls. And based on conversations had and overheard, I’m not the only female who has a hate-hate relationship with bras.

Whoopi Goldberg would agree with me. I’ve heard her say, countless times, on The View,  that she hasn’t worn a bra in over 40 years. I don’t understand why she feels the need to disclose that personal information to a national television audience, but I can relate to why she ditched the darned thing.

Some of my girlfriends and I have shared bra horror stories. One thing we all agree on is that there is nothing more disappointing than investing $40 or more for a bra that rides up, curls over, shifts around, and advertises the back fat.

Buying a bra can be as stressful as wearing one. Women who dislike wasting money with the trial and error process can get assistant from a bra fitter. Tape measure in hand, she is often available to measure you in stores like Victoria’s Secret or Norstrom. Or you can measure yourself at home. There are Internet sites that provide instructions on how to determine your bra size. But be forewarned, doing it yourself and getting the right measurement is not always as easy as A, B, C or double D.

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The Music Box

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

Since publishing, Legacy, I keep thinking of other things that I wish I had included in the book. Discussions with some of my relatives also inspire ideas. One day, I may have to do as one cousin suggested, write Legacy II.

One thing that I might have written about, but didn’t is the music box. I recall seeing it while grandma was alive, but can’t remember if she kept it on the shelf of a small corner knickknack or on top of the old floor model TV. As far as I know, there isn’t anything special about the music box. It’s merely a keepsake for me. I received it, courtesy of a thoughtful aunt, who gave it to me after grandma died. “Just so you can have something that belonged to her,” she said.

Until a few weeks ago, when I was housecleaning, I had forgotten that I had the music box. I rediscovered it when I pulled a small cardboard box out of the closet. On top of numerous other odds and ends inside the box was the dusty music box. After glancing over the contents of the storage box, I hastily decided that I didn’t need any of the stuff and dumped all of it into a trash bag that I had placed on the floor near the closet. I picked up the strings, shook the bag a couple of times and was preparing to tie it up when the music box began playing a few notes. And then it stopped. Perhaps while shaking the bag, I had jarred the wind-up mechanism. I opened the bag, reached inside, removed the music box and then wiped off the dust on one pant leg of the old blue jeans that I was wearing for the cleanup. It was then that I remembered to whom the box had belonged.

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Not Black Like Me

by on ·Race Matters

Recently, as a friend and I were walking home from the neighborhood fitness center we encountered a casually dressed white man who looked to be about 30-something. He was pushing a trendy baby stroller. Riding in it was a cute, rosy-cheeked, infant with wispy tufts of blond hair. We exchanged polite greetings as we passed each other, and I waved at the infant who was sucking on her balled-up fist and curiously observing the sights around her.

“Wow,” I said after we were out of the man’s hearing range.

“What? Wow what?” my friend asked while looking around to see what might have caught my attention.

“I know this will sound crazy,” I say to her. “But I don’t see that much anymore.”

“See what?” she asked.

“A white person with a white child.”

To answer the question that you, dear reader, are probably asking yourself:  Did she say that?  Yes, she did. And I am as serious as a defendant pleading a case before Judge Judy.

Decades ago, during my youth, whenever I happened to see a white family, all of them were white. They looked like white families did on the fifties and sixties TV programs like Leave It to Beaver, Father Knows Best, and The Brady Bunch. Now, transracial adoption is changing the complexion of families in America. Except for a controversial Cheerios commercial and a few other contemporary TV ads, the situation is much more evident in real life than it is on the boob tube.

It is no longer uncommon to see white people in the supermarket, at social gatherings or strolling the street with their rainbow crew or shades of brown-skinned children.

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Slave Babies as Gator Bait

by on ·Opinion, Race Matters, The Way I See It

Black BabyHow many times have you hear it said that finding a solution to the ongoing racial strife in this country would be much easier if people talked about it more? That statement has been made many times over the years by people yearning for racial harmony. Following the deaths of Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray, Eric Garner, Walter Scott, and others too numerous to list here, amicable people – black and white – keep reiterating “Let’s talk.”

Is race relations an issue that people really want to discuss or is it simply that some  individuals merely pay lip service to the idea of dialoguing, because they think that’s what blacks want to hear?

I’m pondering this question because recently there was an interesting discussion on a genealogy website concerning whether – in addition to other atrocities — some black infants born to slaves were used by whites as alligator bait. The conversation began after one of the members of the gen group posted a post card and video relevant to the subject. (You can see it when you click on the link.) Several of the group members commented on the topic. Some said that it could have happened, others said it was a myth.

Curiosity about this subject led me to check the Library of Congress online newspapers. My search revealed that in newspapers published from 1836-1922 alligator bait was mentioned in 119 papers. I reviewed 24 of those 119 before abandoning the task. At least nine of the 24 made direct reference to black children (and in some cases black adults) as alligator bait, including the February 5, 1899 edition of The Richmond Times.

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The Warmth of a Hug

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

In a city where politicians rule and the power handshake is the customary greeting, I am probably an anomaly. I am a hugger.

I hug my relatives. I hug my neighbors. I’ve been known to hug co-workers and, depending on the circumstances, I sometimes hug people who I meet for the first time.

Just as the nod of Namaste recognizes a divine spark within each of us, a sincere hug, like a genuine smile, is a heart-generated gesture. It is a brief, spirit-to-spirit connection between the giver and the receiver that non-verbally expresses a range of emotions. And according to psychologist, Dr. Joe Rock, research shows that a hug not only “breaks down some of the barriers that can make us feel detached,” they also have a therapeutic effect.

There are plenty of people like me for whom hugging comes naturally, and there are people who aren’t huggers at heart. The latter often will not initiate a hug and will return one simply to avoid hurting the other person’s feeling. Sadly and perhaps unbeknownst to the reluctant hugger, a non-reciprocal hug can feel as empty as a limp handshake.

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